


Not So Super (But We're Doing Just Fine)

by space_canada



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, First Time, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-12 10:31:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4476011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/space_canada/pseuds/space_canada
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis is, in no particular order - a football fan, a big brother, an underpaid intern and an empath. Liam is an admirer of Batman, Louis' neighbour, a sound engineer and a mystery.</p><p>Welcome to a world in which everyone has powers, but no one is all that super. Louis is going to be Liam's hero regardless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, a long while back, I shared an idea on tumblr. I wrote a fairly ridiculous summary of a fairly ridiculous story and that was supposed to be the end of it. 
> 
> Somehow though, I then opened a word document, sat down, and wrote roughly 40,000 words about the 1D boys having completely useless superpowers.
> 
> Thanks, brain. Appreciate it.

Harry went through the Shift precisely three days after his eighteenth birthday. He called Louis, voice breathless and slightly ragged around the edges and demanded to be met at the local park. When Louis turned up, Harry was sat on a bench, surrounded by a gaggle of small birds and urban rodents. Everyone in the park in a thirty metre radius, human and canine alike, had paused what they were doing and were staring wistfully at him. A tiny Yorkshire terrier in a tiny tartan coat was whining longingly, and there was a field mouse on Harry’s head.

It remains to this day one of the funniest things Louis has ever seen.

They’d spent a long time, in the run up to Harry’s eighteenth, taking bets on what he’d get. They’d taken great pleasure in coming up with the stupidest ideas possible – inducing baldness with a touch had been a favourite. Louis personally had put his money on super-speed, which might have had the effect of bringing Harry up to the functioning level of a normal person, but it wasn’t to be.

Magnetism had not been something anyone had considered. Ironic really, because now, a year later, Louis can’t think of anything that would suit Harry more. Even when they’d all first met him, bright-eyed and gangly at seventeen, with more limbs than he seemed to know what to do with, there had undeniably been something about him. He was a ridiculous human being of course, which helped, but underneath his enormous smile and his sweetness and his penchant for weird behaviour, there was an edge. Something that made people look at him, made them not want to look away.

If you’d asked him about magnetism before, Louis would probably have nominated Zayn, of the cheekbones and smouldering artistry, but no. With hindsight, Harry makes much better sense and the last twelve months have seen a vast improvement in his control. Nowadays, he’s hardly ever accompanied by small woodland creatures when invited over for tea, although if you ask Louis that’s almost a shame. There are very few social situations that can’t be improved by the addition of six starlings and a squirrel.

Random urges to sit and stare lovingly into Harry’s eyes for long periods of time, however, Louis does not miss. That was just embarrassing for all involved.

He first met Harry through his boss. Louis, newly dropped out of university and long-term broke, applied for a job he was singularly unqualified for and due to what must surely have been a giant cosmic mistake, got it. So he’s an intern for the Radio One Breakfast Show – which mostly involves running menial errands, making tea and trying to refrain from stapling Nick Grimshaw’s ludicrous quiff to his forehead.

Nick – radio DJ, unapologetic hipster and knob extraordinaire – is an old family friend of the Styles’. Not that Louis knew anything about this until he turned up for work one day and found a boy with a ridiculous mop of curls sat on Louis’ desk, with his _feet_ on _Louis’ chair_ , throwing tiny bits of balled-up paper at Nick’s head. Nick, live on air, was either ignoring him – displaying a level of professionalism that had, quite frankly, thus far escaped him – or he hadn’t noticed.

Louis remembers being only slightly mollified by this.

After that, Harry was down at the station almost every day. He was just seventeen, Louis had learned – almost a solid decade younger than Nick, and completely unselfconscious about it. Nick, to Louis’ swiftly discovered delight, was much more sensitive, and any direct reference to his and Harry’s friendship made him twitch. It would, obviously, have been very wrong for Louis not to take full advantage of this. Nick couldn’t fire him, he didn’t even know where the kettle was.

Opportunities for Nick-baiting aside, Louis had been fully prepared to dislike Harry. If not for the fact that he’d just blown in and charmed the socks off Ian and Fiona and even Matt, then definitely for the way he couldn’t cross a room with knocking something over and was easily the worst story-teller Louis had ever encountered.

It was a pity then, that Harry had taken an immediate liking to him and, as previously mentioned, even before the magnetism thing there had always been _something about him_. Something that, in this case, required Louis to be his best mate, probably until the end of time.

“After all,” Harry had said, cheerily, “I don’t know many people in London.”

“Why d’you move here then?” Louis had asked, still determinedly pretending he wasn’t charmed.

Harry had shrugged. “Lack of life direction, I suppose.” He’d sounded supremely unconcerned by this. “Didn’t want to do A-levels, so I was just working in the bakery and in shops and stuff, while I tried to work it out. And then one day, I thought that if I was going to be doing that then I might as well be doing it somewhere a bit more exciting than Holmes Chapel.” He’d waved a hand at the Breakfast Show offices as if to illustrate this point, and come perilously close to knocking Louis’ favourite mug off the edge of the desk.

“So, London it was then?” Louis had said, raising an eyebrow.

Harry had grinned, using his whole face in a way that all breathing things were doomed to find disarmingly charming. “Seemed the obvious choice. Nick’s here.”

He said this in such a way that there was no real way to tell if these two statements were separate or connected, but Nick’s neck and ears had burned a dull red anyway, betraying his feigned interest in the minutes from the last team meeting.

“And now you, of course,” Harry had continued, blithely, “now you’re here too!”

It was in the face of his optimistic affection for a near stranger that Louis had caved. Zayn always had accused him of being led around by his ego.

That had been two years ago, although to Louis it now seemed longer. Harry had fit himself so seamlessly into their lives that it was hard to remember a time when he hadn’t been there. Of course, his addition to the group also meant that Louis saw a lot more of his boss outside of work than he’d ever desired to. It had turned out near impossible to bludgeon the concept of going somewhere without Nick into Harry’s thick skull, although it certainly wasn’t for lack of trying on Louis’ part. Harry just seemed to take it for granted that when he was invited somewhere, it was completely reasonable for him to turn up with Nick in tow.

No one else, of course, seemed to mind this too much. Louis was the only one of his friends who seemed to have the wherewithal to notice exactly how much of a prat Nick was, with his stupid hair and his skinny jeans and the fact he _never shut up_. He’d extolled this argument to Liam on more than one occasion but the only response he got was a very raised, very pointed eyebrow and a cup of tea (because Liam was aces like that). Zayn and Niall, both displaying more human levels of patience, just told him to stop whinging. Even protesting the awkwardness of having your boss turning up to every social event on your calendar didn’t provoke any sympathy.

“Well,” Niall had said, shrugging and stuffing a handful of chips into his mouth, “Grimmy’s not exactly an ordinary boss, is he? He’s…you know.”

“Unbearably pretentious?” Louis had suggested, once he’d translated this sentence from Potato to English. “Idiotic? Completely useless?”

Zayn had rolled his eyes. “Well I suppose he hired you, didn’t he?” he said. “In response to the last.”

Louis had scowled viciously. “I’m the best thing that ever happened to that office,” he snapped.

“Okay,” Zayn said. “And Grimmy is probably the best thing that’s ever going to happen to Harry.”

That, unfortunately, was the crux of the matter. Harry always smiled a little bit brighter when Nick was around, god knows why, and Louis was in no position to argue with that.

“Fine,” he’d groused, slumping back in his seat. “But I want it on the record that I’m not happy about this.”

“Duly noted,” Zayn had said, reaching for his pint glass, “for the hundredth time.” He’d taken a gulp, throat working as he swallowed and sat back to radiate quiet satisfaction.

So that had been that, and nowadays Louis refrained from complaining about Nick’s continuous presence in his life. Mostly anyway. Or, okay, he only complained to Liam, when the others were out of earshot, and only on Sundays, birthdays and public holidays. Instead he just did his level best to irritate Nick to the utmost at work and made the absolute most of every single occasion when Nick got over-excited on air and things got a little bit too…loud.

Honestly, equal opportunity laws notwithstanding, hiring a Sonic as a radio DJ was no one’s brightest idea. Louis had to admit though, however grudgingly, that Nick’s slips were few and far between. Louis had never managed to wrangle the story of his Shift out of him and Harry, who undoubtedly knew, uncharacteristically refused to tell, but whatever had happened, Nick had clearly thrown himself into gaining control with gusto. It took a serious shake to his emotional equilibrium for his voice to take on that unfortunate booming quality, and Louis didn’t think that it was just Matt’s lecture on how deafening the listeners did _not_ improve viewing figures that was restraining him.

Either way, Louis savoured the occasions it happened, because aurally-damaging it may be, but it was _funny_. Even more so if Harry was there, because then Nick’s responses tended away from mulish and toward sheepish, which for Louis, was a beautiful thing to behold.

As far as first jobs went, it had its perks. Friday, however, was still far and away the best day of the week. Being the Breakfast Show, they started painfully early and finished about mid-afternoon. These were not ideal working hours, especially for Louis for whom the word ‘morning’ had always been synonymous with ‘torture’ but he couldn’t deny that he appreciated having most of the afternoon and the evening free. Even if he did have to go to bed at half past nine like an octogenarian, something that Liam never missed a chance to gently rib him about.

“Don’t stay out too late, Lou,” he was fond of saying, whenever they met up with the others down the pub, “don’t want to turn into a pumpkin.”

This was, doubtlessly, the lamest mocking anyone had ever carried out but Liam always exuded such an air of delight as he waited for Louis to retaliate that no one ever had the heart to point this out to him. It had, after all, taken over six months of invites for Liam to even agree to go to the pub with them and at least another six on top of that before he started tentatively joining in with the teasing.

Zayn and Niall liked to make pointed remarks about Louis being ‘over-protective’. Louis disagreed with this absolutely. Thinking that hurting Liam’s feelings should be a criminal offence did not make him over-protective, it just made _sense._ And Harry agreed, so there.

Louis and Liam lived together. Well, sort of. They lived in the same block of flats, which was as good as. Harry, who did actually live in the same flat as Louis, disagreed with him on this one but they could rarely be bothered to argue about it, unless very bored. Anyway, Liam had moved in upstairs a couple of months before Harry even _met_ Louis, so Louis felt that in this instance, his opinion was pretty much moot.

Louis first met Liam when he was taking out the rubbish. He was wearing Snoopy boxer-briefs and an over-sized t-shirt, stretched out at the collar bones and bearing the words ‘I ain’t gettin’ on no plane, sucka!’ and a garish image of Mr T. He’d walked around the corner, whistling and swinging his bag and collided head-on with Liam. This in itself would have been unfortunate enough, but sadly, to add insult to injury, Louis had been no more able to stop the motion of the bag than the motion of his feet, and so he followed up head butting Liam in the face by hitting him solidly in the stomach with a large sack of rubbish. The sack, naturally, promptly broke.

If, while thirteen and angry at the world, Louis had not made a promise to never let himself feel humiliated unless he well and truly deserved it, the sight of Liam standing clutching his nose, with tea bags and old noodles splattered over his shirt, would have made him sink through the floor.

Luckily, he _had_ made that promise, and as the catastrophic unfolding of events had not been intentional on Louis’ part, the humiliation had had to be shelved into the box in his brain simply marked ‘Nope’ and ignored.

So instead, Louis had dropped what remained of his bin bag and stuck his hand under Liam’s nose. “Welcome to the building,” he’d said cheerfully, and then, partly because Liam looked horrified and partly because he wasn’t a total arse, “Sorry about the smell.”

Liam – not that Louis had known that then – had shaken his hand, seemingly on autopilot. “Hello,” he’d said, and then, peering ruefully at his t-shirt, “this isn’t a traditional building greeting is it?”

This had been the first clue that Louis had had that Liam might be just a tiny bit different. For the one thing, he hadn’t gone apeshit, which would definitely have been Louis’ default reaction if someone had crashed into him and then thrown a week’s worth of rotting takeout and teabags down his front. For another – and this was the real kicker – he hadn’t only not acted annoyed, he hadn’t _felt_ annoyed.

And that, to an Empath like Louis, made a big difference. He had good control over himself and kept most things out, but even so, with an incident like that he would have expected to be immediately buffeted by a wave of anger, probably, in this case, tinted with the oiliness of disgust. But all he’d felt from Liam in that moment was a gentle wave of befuddlement, lapping back and forth at the edges of his consciousness as if unsure quite where to turn. Even when Louis had actually reached out a little, disbelieving, all that happened was that the befuddlement was joined by a quiet ache of resignation, as slow and sad as the clump of egg-fried rice sliding steadily down Liam’s hip.

“You’re not cross,” Louis’d said, self-control having never been one of his defining attributes. “Why aren’t you cross?”

Liam, if possible, had looked even more confused. “Well,” he’d said, hesitantly, “it was an accident? I think?”

“Well, yes,” Louis had said, “but look at you. You’re wearing a week’s worth of rotting food. Surely you should be at least a tiny bit pissed off?”

Liam had shuffled his feet awkwardly and looked at the wall. “It was an accident,” he said again, “I really don’t mind.”

Another quick and oh-so-unethical foray into the edges of his mind had confirmed for Louis that, yes, once again Liam was telling the truth. He really didn’t mind.

Later, when Louis had recounted this story to Harry, Harry had blinked slowly at him and said, “Maybe he’s just nice?” As an explanation, this struck Louis as far from satisfactory. He had met lots of nice people – nice meant you got pissed off and persevered with politeness regardless. It didn’t mean you just accepted it when people were horribly rude to you, no matter how accidental the horrible rudeness had been.

Attempts to explain this to Harry, however, had been unsuccessful. Zayn and Niall had been equally fruitless and Nick had just raised a bored eyebrow from the other side of the table.

It didn’t matter to Louis though. He had remained undeterred and from that moment on, Liam had fascinated him.

*-*-*-*

Back when they’d all been at uni together, and young and stupid and generally concerned with consuming a large amount of alcohol on a regular basis, most nights had been pub nights. Now, however, with them all having graduated and miraculously obtained jobs, they’ve had to restrict themselves to Fridays.

Achieving adulthood is, in Louis’ eyes, one of life’s greatest tragedies.

They go to the Oxford Arms, which is both an immense dive and Niall’s place of work. Niall has, in his own words, revolutionised their lunch time menu and seems ever hopeful that at some point his surly manager will let him loose on the evening shifts. Louis – who pretty much lived on Niall’s cooking during the one year he managed at uni – thinks that would probably be a wise decision on the manager’s part.

As it is, when Louis arrives this Friday, the pub is already crowded and the cloying smell of old grease indicates that Niall’s manager has not yet woken up and smelt the bacon, as it were. Louis sheds his jacket and fights his way over to the bar.

He orders a watered down beer from the aggressively Australian barman and turns to scan the room, fighting not to grimace as his elbow sticks to the wooden bar top. An initial scan of the room indicates that he is the first to arrive, but just in case, Louis takes a second, more careful, look.

Sure enough, on his second perusal, his eyes travel over an empty booth in the back corner of the pub. There’s absolutely nothing about it that would draw a second glance, unless you knew what you were looking for. In the years Louis has known Zayn, he has become well accustomed to the little twitch his brain gives, that strange reluctance to look straight at an object and the almost subconscious urge for your eyes to just slip on past. There’s a tall coat stand in that corner of the pub, right by the booth, and no matter how hard Louis tries, his brain is supremely reluctant to look straight at it.

Gathering up his pint, Louis makes his way across the room and slides into the booth. He looks away, deliberately blinks a bit and when he turns back, Zayn is lounging across from him and the coat stand is gone.

“Nice interior decoration,” Louis says, by way of greeting.

Zayn smiles lazily. “Too busy in here for me.”

The Elusives, Louis thinks, are a funny bunch. The best of them, the really talented guys, can vanish without trace and are supposed to be completely undetectable. Zayn, however, is not particularly high level. Invisibility is far beyond his scope, much to Louis’ eternal disappointment. Blending in is more Zayn’s forte. Louis’ lost track of the number of times he’s arranged to meet Zayn somewhere public, only to find himself impatiently pacing in front of a nice lamppost. Zayn, completely erroneously, seems to think this is funny.

Louis disagrees, but what he does think is funny is Zayn’s first date with Perrie. He’d been so nervous, so the story goes, that he’d lost complete control and Perrie later confessed that for about half of dinner, she was talking to thin air and there was a delightful pot plant stood by the side of the table. Zayn tended to suffer a total sense of humour failure whenever this anecdote came up, but luckily for him and his engagement, Perrie agreed with Louis and saw the funny side.

This, Louis suspected, was because Perrie was secretly the best of all of them. She was a Spark, her level about equivalent to Zayn’s and Louis had once had the privilege of seeing her make a man cry because he dared to refer to her as ‘low voltage’. This was clearly complete crap anyway because Perrie was amazing - she always kept their hands warm at the bus stop in January and she did the best toasted marshmallows Louis had ever tasted. Who the fuck cared about anything else?

Louis also liked having Perrie around because she brought out the dork in Zayn. Zayn liked to think he was the coolest of all of them, and he probably was, but no one had the knack of cracking through to his cotton fluff interior quite like Perrie. Louis was of the opinion that Zayn needed that from time to time.

Sadly, Perrie wasn’t coming tonight because she and El were going to a philosophy lecture. Quite frankly, Louis thought that if you attended a voluntary lecture on a Friday night, it was probably a sign you needed your head examined. Then again, it was also probably the reason that Perrie kept getting promoted and El was doing a Masters whereas Louis had barely made it through one year of uni before jacking it all in.

It was also another clear and glaring sign that he and Eleanor were completely incompatible – the whole gay thing notwithstanding – she always had been and always would be, far too good for him. Louis loved her anyway, in a platonic life partner sort of way, and remained fiercely glad that their two and a half minutes of dating when they were both first years hadn’t done any lasting damage.

It had been Eleanor, actually, that had brought him to the realisation that he was probably gay, and not in the way you might think. It was less to do with the awkward kissing and more to do with the fact that, as they were walking across campus one day, El had turned to him and casually enquired as to whether Louis was aware that he was constantly checking out other men?

That, Louis thought, was the problem with telepaths. Half the time, El seemed to know what he was thinking before he did himself. Zayn liked to say that this was because Louis was a bit dim, but Louis had never spent half of a first date as a hibiscus, so Zayn could fuck off.

Anyway, after that little incident, Louis and El had done the obvious thing and broken up and then Louis had spent a number of weeks being a bit of a mess. It had, however, become clear fairly quickly that him being gay changed absolutely nothing. He and El remained much the same as they had been before (with hindsight, this should have been a clue), he still loved football as much as he ever had and Zayn and Niall and his mum still loved him. It was this last point that eventually snapped Louis out of his funk – he had his friends and family and that seemed to negate his right to sulk. So many other people had it so much worse.

Liam, eyes big and earnest, liked to try and tell him that this was not the case and that Louis had as much right to be confused over his identity as anyone. Louis was still unconvinced, but Liam, so frequently unsure of himself, seemed absolutely certain on this point.

Speaking of Liam, back in the pub he had just arrived, shouldering his way through the door, Nick and Harry in tow. Everyone in the near vicinity of the entrance winced away from the wash of bitter night air. Louis didn’t need to be close enough to hear to know that Liam was murmuring apologies to them as he passed, as though he was in any way to blame for the month of February.

On the other side of the booth, Zayn gave a pointed cough.

“What?” Louis snapped.

“Oh, nothing, mate,” a cheerful Irish voice said, “just wondering if you could tear your eyes away from Liam for long enough to notice the rest of us.”

Louis’ head snapped around without his permission and somehow, sprawled in the booth next to Zayn, was Niall, blond-tipped hair more spikey than usual. It was hard to say how long he’d been there.

Louis scowled. “I was looking at Haz,” he said, as snottily as possible. “I think he’s got a piece of someone’s old curtain stuck round his head. Someone should tell him,” he paused, “or not.”

Niall and Zayn snorted in stereo and Louis felt a sparkle-crack of amusement so strong it had to have been projected. He glared but Niall and Zayn were wearing identical expressions of innocence, brown and blue eyes wide and guileless and neither of them broke in the time it took Harry to reach the table.

“Hiyaaaa.” Harry was his usual flail of oddly-patterned clothing and beaming smile, both vowels and limbs elongated as he folded himself into the booth, shoving Niall over without ceremony and dragging Nick down after him. Nick’s hair was even bigger than usual and he was wearing black-framed glasses that Louis suspected he didn’t actually need. It made him grit his teeth.

“Evening all,” Nick said, cheerfully, rudely ignoring Louis’ unspoken disapproval of his sartorial choices. “How is everyone?”

Niall immediately launched into the story of his on-going battle for the pub’s evening menu and whilst Nick is pretending to look interested and Harry is peering earnestly at a sketch Zayn has produced, Louis took advantage of the lack of attention on him and slipped away.

He headed over to the bar, where Liam was patiently queuing, because if he didn’t Liam would be there for about an hour. Louis had been trying to educate him in the art of pointed elbows and glaring while trying to get to the front of the bar queue, but Liam it turned out, was not a natural student in this subject. Last Friday, a man had barged into him and Liam had actually apologised and gestured him to go in front, so it was possible there was no hope for him at all.

This, clearly, was why he needed Louis in his life.

By the time Louis reached the bar, Liam had shed his long black overcoat and revealed a black woolly jumper. From the back, this was an excellent outfit choice because it pulled tight across Liam’s shoulders in a manner that Louis was sure all the girls would appreciate. From the front however, as Liam spotted him and turned, it wasn’t quite so good because there was a wonky yellow Batman symbol in the middle of the chest and it was obviously hand-knitted. Quite probably by Liam’s gran.

Louis absolutely did not find that endearing.

“Lou!” Liam’s grin split his face in two and as soon as Louis was within arm’s reach, he reached out to clasp Louis’ shoulder and draw him in. Looking at him, you’d think that meeting Louis down the pub was the best thing to happen all day. Maybe all week. The itch to know what that _felt_ like prickled fierce under Louis’ skin and he clamped firmly down down down on his control, adding another layer to his mental blockade whilst simultaneously allowing himself to be pulled into Liam’s side.

“Good day?” Liam asked him, as if they hadn’t been texting on and off since they woke up.

“Eh,” Louis shrugged, “management told Nick he couldn’t have Rita Ora as his record of the week two weeks running and he had a proper hissy fit. There was actual foot stomping, it was a beautiful thing to behold.”

Liam laughed. “Remind me,” he said, eyes twinkling, “what was it you did last time the Rovers lost?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Louis said primly, sticking his nose in the air. “But I know I would never sink to the level of foot stomping. I’m too mature and responsible for that.”

“Last week you left a spoon in your soup bowl while you microwaved it and nearly burnt your flat down. And my flat too, probably, seeing as I live upstairs.”

Sometimes Louis regretted introducing Liam to Zayn. “ _Nearly_ , Lee-yum,” he said. “The key word there is nearly.”

Liam chuckled. “D’you want a drink?” he asked. “I offered to buy for Harry and Grimmy.”

Louis, like most people who have been students, had a strong instinct to accept all offers of alcohol. Liam, however, didn’t drink – one of these days, he was going to explain to Louis _why not_ – so it seemed a bit of a cheek to make him buy a round. Louis pulled out his own wallet.

“S’on me,” he said, “coke or lemonade?”

*-*-*-*


	2. Chapter 2

Managing to become acquaintances with Liam is something that Louis considers one of his finer achievements in life thus far. Their somewhat wobbly start was followed by a period of what Louis had considered a concentrated, tactical friendship-assault and Liam had considered a form of harassment.

Louis, however, could be quite determined when he put his mind to something. Zayn described him using an analogy involving small, yapping dogs and bones, which was both inaccurate and unflattering. Niall contributed a bad joke about Liam and a different kind of bone, which Louis, in his infinite wisdom, chose to ignore.

(It was possible Louis needed better friends).

It had had to be said though, that whilst Liam chatted in the corridors (although only when spoken to first) and could sometimes be persuaded to come in for a cup of tea on a Sunday, he had never seemed exactly _enthused_ by Louis’ generous and continuing overtures of friendship. In fact, on the few occasions Louis had deviated from his moral code for long enough to brush against Liam’s mind, instead of the cherry pie warmth of a blossoming friendship, all Liam gave off was an almond-y sort of anxiety and a low-grade tide of confusion.

Louis and frustration had never been the happiest of bedfellows and it was this he blamed for what had happened on Halloween two years previously.

*-*-*-*

_Two years ago…_

Halloween had always been one of Louis’ absolute favourite holidays, but this particular year there seemed to be just a little extra frisson of _something_ in the air. Louis’ party – infamous and unmissable - seemed to hold more promise than usual. There were two reasons for this.

The first was Harry, who by this point had been Louis’ flatmate for about a fortnight and one of his best mates for an entire two weeks longer than that. Louis hadn’t so much asked Harry to move in with him, as failed to notice the slowly encroaching tide of Harry’s belongings until it was too late – Harry was well and truly settled into Louis’ box room and had bought a new head scarf that matched the sofa. Refusal to drink tea and penchant for odd art aside, Louis found he didn’t much mind. If nothing else, Harry’s sense of flair and the dramatic had really added to the general ambience of this year’s party, even if he was currently lounging on the sofa dressed as a deodorant can.

The second reason that this year was going to be better than most was that Liam was going to come. Okay, so he hadn’t actually responded to Louis’ invitation – to accept or to decline – but Louis could feel in it his bones.

( _“_ In your bone? Less of that, Lou, some of us are young and unsullied by your filth!” This had come from the leprechaun pouring half a litre of vodka into the punch bowl in the kitchen and giggling madly. The punk rocker currently lounging against the wall and throwing puzzled glances at Harry’s choice of costume, cackled. Louis hated them both.)

He was starting to get a bit desperate, was the thing. Louis prided himself on getting what he wanted, and had in the past succeeded in attaining things far more morally dubious than a new friend. He just couldn’t quite understand why Liam persisted in remaining simultaneously so polite but so closed-off and emotionally unavailable. When Louis saw him around the building – unlocking his front door, carrying in his shopping, checking his post – Liam just seemed so tightly, fiercely held together, that Louis itched and itched and itched to find a crack.

It wasn’t as though he’d been behaving in an offensive way. In fact, even Zayn had had to admit that for Louis, his behaviour had been quite genial. He’d been funny and confident and put himself forward. He hadn’t thrown any more rubbish, or commented on how seven sugars destroyed a cup of tea, or poked around in Liam’s emotions (much). He showered regularly and wasn’t appallingly hideous and had been as less of a dick as he knew how.

And yet still, every time Liam saw him, all he got was a small smile and a “Hello, Louis,” and a little wash of confusion and anxiety against the edges of his mind.

It had been four months and Louis was just about at the end of his tether. Which is why, he had decided, Liam was going to come to the party tonight. He had to, because Louis was just about out of ideas.

*-*-*-*

Liam didn’t come to the party.

“Whhhhy,” Louis whined, sprawled on the sofa with his head in Zayn’s punk rocker lap.

“I don’t know, mate,” Zayn said. He’d drunk more than one cup of Halloween punch and it was probably only this that made his tone as mellow as it was. The fingers scratching through Louis’ hair however, spoke only of affection.

“I don’t get it,” Louis said, voice wobbling slightly, probably as a result of several cups of Halloween punch of his own and a good dose of frustration. “Why doesn’t he like me? I’ve been _nice_ , Zayn.”

Zayn hummed and the fingers rubbed a bit harder, just behind Louis’ ears. “I know you have.”

“He wasn’t even polite enough to RSVP and say he wasn’t coming.”

Zayn sighed heavily. “Why does this matter so much to you, Lou? You don’t even know the bloke,” he paused. “I know we’ve been joking about it, but you don’t actually fancy him do you?”

Louis rolled upright with a grumpy huff. “Not everything is about _fancying_ people, _Zayn_. I just think he looks interesting. And like he needs a friend. And a laugh. And he’s just…” he hesitated and then decided that, yes, he is drunk enough. “It’s his mind. You know? It’s a bit different.”

“Is this still about the incident with the rubbish?” Harry asked, and Louis immediately regretted ever ever telling him about that.

“No,” he snapped, and then levered himself off the sofa. “I’m going to get another drink.”

*-*-*-*

He does go to get another drink, and another, and possibly another. And then he’s just about drunk enough to decide that a good place to consume this latest beverage is in the corridor outside Liam’s flat.

He eyes the door, painted a dull green and laments the fact that he never has and probably never will, see behind it. He taps the neck of his beer bottle against the wood – one, two, three times – and then slides gloomily to the floor, propping himself up against the wall.

The wall is cold and delightfully solid, both facts which please Louis greatly, and he’s contemplating whether or not he should just sleep here tonight, when the impassable dull green door opposite him opens.

Louis realises too late that bashing a glass bottle against a door could otherwise be construed as knocking. But he doesn’t have time to dwell on this realisation, because the truth of the matter is, Liam has turned into a girl.

She’s got dark hair and a mole on her neck and Liam’s big warm brown eyes. Louis blinks. “Liam?” he tries.

The girl raises an eyebrow and does not look overly impressed. “No,” she says. “Not Liam. Ruth.”

“Are you burgling Liam?” Louis asks, considering that if so, he should probably make some vague attempt to stop her.

“Not so much,” Ruth says. “I’m Liam’s sister,” she pauses and gives Louis a distinctly unfriendly onceover. “And…you are?”

“Ron Weasley,” Louis says and starts giggling. He regrets this a moment later, when he finds he can’t stop.

There’s a long pause, while Liam’s sister looks at the ceiling as though she might find some inner strength chilling with the cobwebs. Eventually, after what might be five seconds or five hours, she looks back down at Louis, who has finally managed to stop giggling and has progressed to hiccupping.

“Are you Louis, by any chance?” she asks.

Louis blinks at her and wonders if she’s magic.

“No,” Ruth says. “No, I’m not magic. Liam told me about you.”

A great triumphant chorus erupts singing in Louis’ head until he realises that Ruth’s unfriendly exterior has not thawed one bit. “What did he say?” he asks.

Ruth’s mouth tightens slightly and a stab of mouldy peanut disapproval jabs against Louis’ somewhat impaired control. “What are you doing here, Louis?” she asks. “Liam’s in bed.”

“Oh,” Louis says, greatly disappointed, and then, “he didn’t come to my party. It’s Halloween and he was supposed to come, but he didn’t.”

“You invited him to your party?” Ruth seems slightly surprised.

“Yes,” Louis tells her mournfully. “And this was supposed to be the best year, because Harry lives with me now and Liam was going to come. But then he didn’t. So.” He is, somewhere, vaguely aware that he should not be saying all of this to someone who is, essentially, a complete stranger. Unfortunately, the punch seems to have taken control of his vocal cords. It’s just so nice to talk to someone who looks such a lot like Liam, even if it isn’t Liam himself.

“Louis,” Ruth says, “why did you want Liam to come to your party?” She sounds as though she is speaking with great patience to a recalcitrant five year old.

“He’s got such an interesting mind,” Louis says, ignoring the part of him that is screaming in horror at this confession. “But it’s always almond-y and confused. I’d like to taste it when he’s laughing,” he pauses as he realises something. “I’ve never seen your brother laugh. Does he know how to? Oh my _god_ , is he a robot? Is that why?”

There’s a moment of silence and when Louis drags his increasingly heavy eyes up to Ruth’s, he finds that she’s got a hand clamped over her mouth and her shoulders are shaking slightly. “Oh fuck me,” she says, seemingly more to herself than to Louis, “ _boys_.”

Louis would like to enquire as to what she means by this statement, but he’s finally losing the battle against his own eyelids. “Sorry, Ruth,” he manages, through a jaw-cracking yawn. “Think I’m about to pass out on you. Probably just gonna sleep. Right here. Wall’s very comfy.” He slides a few inches further down it to prove his point.

“Louis,” Ruth starts, but nope, Louis’ done for the night. The last thing he remembers is the girl reaching down to grip his shoulders and the sound of her voice calling for someone.

Then he passes out.

*-*-*-*

When Louis awakens the next morning, it’s to an unfamiliar sofa, wrapped in an unfamiliar blanket and with an all-too-familiar chainsaw doing its level best to split open his skull.

“Oh my _god_ ,” he groans. “What _happened_ last night?”

“You tell me,” says a female voice, and when, after a few deep breaths Louis manages to roll his head around, he sees a brunette in a woolly red jumper leant in the doorway to what is presumably the kitchen.

“Um,” Louis says, “well. I was drinking, I definitely remember a lot of drinking. We were having a Halloween party…” he trails off here as he realises belatedly that’s he still dressed as a devil – horns and all – although thankfully he appears to have lost the pitchfork.

The girl’s mouth twitches. “So,” she says, “you were drinking. Evidently. And then?”

Louis has to think very hard. The memory is flitting about his brain, tickling just out of reach, maddening, maddening. He looks at the girl for inspiration – god, they didn’t _sleep_ together, did they? – and notices her eyes, which are just…so familiar…Oh _shit_.

It hits him all in a rush and he cringes a little bit. “Oh fuck,” he says. “Well. I am really very sorry.”

“For what?” the girl - Ruth – says. “For passing out hammered in the hallway and forcing us to take you in for the night? Or for drunkenly stalking my baby brother?”

“Um,” Louis winces. “Both?” His urge is to protest the stalking accusation, but. A horrible thought hits him. “Liam’s not, um…he’s not here, is he?”

“No,” says Ruth, letting Louis sag in relief for a second before continuing, “but he was. I sent him out for breakfast.”

“You…” Louis’ brain doesn’t seem to be keeping a proper track of reality this morning. God, he’s hungover. He latches onto the only word that really penetrated. “Breakfast?”

Ruth comes over and plonks herself down in the armchair opposite. She’s very pretty and she really does look an awful lot like her brother. Liam’s friends must have had a field day over her growing up.

“Breakfast,” she says. “Knowing Liam, probably bacon. You look like you could use a little grease in your life.”

Living with Niall has caused both Louis and Zayn to have an essentially Pavlovian response to the word ‘bacon’. Louis starts salivating almost immediately. There is, of course, the unfortunate side effect that with bacon will come Liam – and Louis is pretty sure he does not need to see Liam, possibly ever again but certainly not this morning. He shifts on the sofa and wonders if fleeing out the front door never to be seen again would be on the list of behaviours his Mum categorises as ‘astronomically rude’.

He suspects the answer is yes, probably. Unfortunately, it’s a sacrifice he may have to make.

“So,” Ruth says, eyes narrowing slightly, as though she can sense the direction Louis’ thoughts have taken. It is, of course, entirely possible that she has – Louis has absolutely no idea what Ruth is. “Care to explain why you ended up passed out in the hallway opposite my brother’s flat last night?”

“No,” Louis says, instinctually, “not really. Thanks, though,” he gestures at the sofa.

Ruth, unsurprisingly, seems eminently unsatisfied by this. “Liam’s told me about you,” she says, somewhat ominously. “He says that you’re harassing him.”

All Louis can manage in response is an appalled, slightly quizzical squawk.

“He says you keep talking to him and offering him tea and _pinching_ him,” Ruth says. “And then you turn up to bang on his door at arse o’clock in the morning with the blood-alcohol ratio of a serious fire hazard.” She plucks at a spare thread on the sleeve of her jumper and somehow manages to make this look mildly threatening. “You can see why I’m concerned.”

“I...” Louis starts, then breaks off to shove his hands through his hair, order his thoughts and attempt to swallow around the moderate-sized rock that has somehow lodged itself in his throat. “Look, I honestly don’t know how I ended up here last night. I was really _really_ drunk. As for the other stuff, I…didn’t realise that was how Liam was taking it. I never meant…I was just…” Louis trails off, all too aware that expressing his interest in the flavours of Liam’s mind is probably not a wise path to start down right now. That sounds like something that might end up on a form underneath ‘Reason for restraining order’. “I was just trying to be his friend,” he finishes, rather lamely, and tries not to cringe.

Ruth eyes him in silence for a moment. “Well,” she says, eventually, “your explanation was more amusing as a drunk, but at least you’re consistent. Coffee?”

Louis is far far too hungover to keep up with this. If he thought his legs would hold him, he’d get up and leave. “Do you have tea?” he asks, a little desperately.

There’s a pause and then a clanking begins in the kitchen. Ruth’s fingers twitch slightly in her lap.

“Telekinesis?” Louis asks, and Ruth nods. “Nice.”

She shrugs. “Nothing particularly special, but it comes in handy. And you – you’re an Empath?”

Louis nods. “Yeah, nothing flash. Just surface-y stuff, really.”

“You’ve read Liam, then?” Ruth says, mouth tight. “And now you’re all interested in getting to know him?”

“No!” Louis says, sitting up straighter in his horror. “I don’t. Never. Without permission. Not ever. All I’ve ever got from Liam is flashes when he projects a bit. I block, mostly.”

“Huh,” Ruth says. She looks a bit puzzled. “So you don’t know…?”

“Don’t know what?”

There’s a brief silence, during which a cup of tea floats in from the kitchen and bumps Louis lightly in the back of the head. He grabs it gratefully.

“Look,” he says, eventually. “I’m really sorry about all this. I didn’t mean to disturb you last night and I’m grateful you took me in. Next time feel free to leave me in the corridor. I don’t know anything about Liam really, I’ve certainly never read his mind against his will. I just thought he looked like a nice bloke in need of a mate. If he wants me to piss off – that’s fine. I’ll leave him alone.” He finishes this mortifying speech with a large gulp of tea and then hauls himself to his feet and jabs a thumb over his shoulder at the door. “I’ll just…”

Ruth stands up as well. She’s holding a mug of coffee and Louis, trying not to look directly at her, notices that the bright red mug has a large photo of her own face on it, cheek-to-cheek and grinning with Liam, underneath the words ‘Team Liam’. Bit odd, but Louis doesn’t have the energy to care about anything other than escaping before Liam gets home.

“Hey,” Ruth says, and inexplicably, she’s smiling. The expression transforms her face and her brown eyes warm beautifully. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be a bitch. It’s just – Liam hasn’t had the easiest time of it, growing up – and I’m protective of him, I guess,” she pauses, hesitating slightly. “Liam sees the best in everyone except himself and sometimes things can get…misinterpreted, you know?” She gestures with the coffee mug and raises an eyebrow expectantly.

Louis has got literally no idea at all what is going on, but he is acutely aware that much – his happiness, self-respect, the whimpering shreds of his dignity – all depend on him getting out of here before Liam gets back and then proceeding to avoid him for the rest of eternity.

“Okay, yeah,” he says. “I got it, no worries, thanks for everything, sorry again, be seeing you, have a great weekend, bye!!”

He matches every syllable to a step towards the exit and by the time he’s run out of breath, he’s reached the front door and is hightailing it out of there and up, up and away.

*-*-*-*

The flat, when Louis reaches it, is resoundingly gross. There’s a strong smell of peach schnapps, stale vomit and cigarette smoke, – fucking Zayn –, god knows what crunches under foot and there is not a single clear surface.

It is, in short, a wonderous safe haven that Louis has never been happier to return to than he is in this moment.

Sound asleep, snoring and spread out over the majority of the lounge floor is the leprechaun. El and Perrie are nowhere in sight and Louis spares a moment to feel a twinge of chivalrous pride that the girls got the beds, until he realises that the punk rocker is also conspicuously absent. God, he hopes that Zayn and Perrie fucked in Harry’s bed.

Harry, the deodorant can himself, is passed out on the sofa. Nick – dressed as Beyonce – is somehow crammed on there as well. Harry’s drooling onto Nick’s fake boobs and Nick is drooling into Harry’s curls.

The sight is not really helping Louis’ hangover, so he snaps a quick picture for future Nick-nagging purposes and then sets off for the kitchen, banging as loudly as he possibly can. He’s had a really shit morning – one that he’s trying not to think about too hard right now – and the least his terrible friends can do is wake up and fuss over him.

It takes ten minutes and repeated boilings of the kettle (which always sounds like it’s gearing up for world domination) but eventually El appears in the doorway, sleepy-eyed and ruffled and wearing one of Louis’ shirts and apparently little else. It is a clear sign of how extremely gay Louis is that this sight only partially floors him.

El wanders over and wraps her arms around him, leaning her head on his shoulder. “Ung,” she says and Louis has to laugh, because really, El is the best.

They stand and sway in silence for a while, and Louis suspects they are probably both rueing the decision to allow Niall to make the punch. Eventually El makes a disgruntled noise and raises her head. She pokes him in the cheek. “Me, toast. You, tea.”

“Me, Tarzan. You, Jane,” Louis agrees, somewhat nonsensically and reaches for the kettle.

They proceed in silence for a little while, until eventually two breakfasts have been assembled and nothing is burnt and most of it is edible, despite the mould El had to cut off the bread.

Louis wonders absently that if he had failed to escape from Liam’s, whether he would have gotten bacon before he was roasted to death on the flames of his own humiliation. Probably not worth it. Probably.

El hitches herself up onto the counter to eat and then immediately makes a face. “God, why is this _sticky_?”

“It’s always sticky,” Louis says, after thinking for a moment, and shrugs.

“You are a pig,” El informs him, but doesn’t actually bother to move. She thumps her heel against the counter, “where did you vanish to last night, anyway?”

Louis focuses very hard on her toenails, which are painted black with tiny white spider web designs. That’s pretty fucking ace. He tells her so.

“Thanks,’ El says. “So, you went to Liam’s then?”

_Fucking telepaths_ , Louis thinks, as loudly as possible and gets a blast of dark-treacle-ginger smugness right back.

“What did you do?” El asks. She doesn’t sound resigned, which Louis suspects is far more than he deserves.

He can’t quite face rehashing the entire sorry tale, so he just closes his eyes and lets it all spool out in his mind’s eye instead. There’s a few moments of silence and then El heaves a sigh.

“Oh, Louis,” she says. Her mind tastes like spiced apple juice and fondness, overlain with sloeberry you’re-an-idiot. It’s a combination Louis has encountered so often that he almost takes comfort in the familiarity.

“I know,” he groans and closes his eyes. “Proper managed to bollocks it up, didn’t I?”

“No,” El says, somewhat surprisingly, “I don’t think necessarily.” She frowns a little. “What was Liam’s sister saying at the end there? About Liam misinterpreting stuff?”

“I have got literally no idea at all,” Louis replies. “I don’t know what he’s been misinterpreting, or what it is that I apparently don’t know about him, or…I don’t know anything really. Just that apparently, he thinks I’ve been harassing him. So. There’s that.” He has to pause then and take a big breath and then a big gulp of tea because his throat is aching weirdly. He is really very hungover.

He must look even more miserable than he feels, because El slides down from the counter and wraps her arms around him again. “You really like him, don’t you?”

The denial is on the tip of Louis’ tongue and if it was anyone else it would have made it out, but it’s El and so somehow, he ends up staying quiet. Which is ridiculous because he doesn’t know Liam and he doesn’t fancy him (although he definitely doesn’t _not_ fancy him) but he just feels this draw to know him better and…well, ridiculous.

El hugs him even tighter, as though she thinks that a few broken ribs might take Louis’ mind off his own stupidity. She might well be right, so he doesn’t protest. “What are you going to do?” she mumbles into his shoulder.

Louis shrugs as best he can without breaking her jaw. “Leave him alone,” he says. “I mean, if he thinks I’m harassing him. I’ll just…stop, I guess. Hide in here. Never see him again. Move out, maybe.”

El snorts into his shirt, which is faintly gross but somehow appealingly unladylike coming from her. Louis inhales the smell of her hair and thinks about Liam’s brown eyes and anxious mind and then about how Louis tried to be as friendly and good as he knew how and apparently all he did was cause upset.

His eyes sting a little, which is probably some weird after-effect of having peach schnapps in punch.

El digs her nails into his back and vanilla-custard comfort bursts its way into his mind and wraps itself warm and cotton-fluffy around the edges.

“You’re an idiot,” she says.

_I love you too_ , Louis thinks back.

*-*-*-*

No matter what Zayn says, Louis does not – categorically does _not_ – spend the next week moping. His hangover stretches for a grisly two days which is another betrayal of adulthood that Louis is appalled has happened to him, and after he finally feels human again, he spends his time going to work and coming home from work and making sure he’s seen every single episode of Friends that ever aired.

It’s a perfectly valid use of time and he is not moping. There just…doesn’t seem to be much to cheer him up, is all. Even mocking Nick seems to have lost its edge. 

He tries really hard not to think about the whole confusing mess with Liam, because he’s trying not to be completely pathetic about it and he realises he is in dangerous territory thus regarding. On the couple of occasions he slips and imagines Liam uncomfortable and awkward because Louis is _harassing_ him, maybe trying to avoid him and cringing a little whenever Louis asks him in for tea….well. It makes something hot and prickly crawl over his skin and Louis isn’t sure if it’s hurt or shame.

“Fuck him, mate,” Niall had said, succinct as ever, when Louis had finally confessed what had happened. “You were only trying to be nice, it’s his loss.” He’d nudged Louis companionably, probably leaving behind a large bruise. “What do you need him for, anyway? You’ve got us.”

He’d sat back, clearly considering all said that needed to be on the subject, and offered Louis a handful of salt and vinegar crisps. Louis didn’t feel enormously comforted by the words, but he did take the crisps because with Niall, food was love.

Harry started hugging him about eight times a day and Nick appeared at work with a cup of tea he’d made for Louis, an entirely novel event. “Only took him the better part of an hour,” Matt had muttered. Louis refused to be touched because it was Nick and the tea tasted like shit anyway, but he did give in and put two sugars in Nick’s morning tea for the rest of the week. Only the morning tea, mind you, because over-sugaring was sacrilege and also really bad for your blood glucose levels.

Zayn didn’t say anything and in a way this was the most comforting thing of all, because Zayn was not a sympathetic person and if he’d been nice that would have been a harbinger of the apocalypse. As it was, his silence was just a sign that Louis would be okay.

His friends are ace.

So. He’s not moping but he is avoiding Liam like the plague. Louis has never been more grateful for his irregular working hours because he’s up before the sun and definitely before Liam in the morning, and home before most normal working people have lunchtime. In fact, he’s so successful at the avoidance, that Louis thinks once his hurt pride and shame have been adequately soothed away by Niall’s food and Harry’s hugs and Zayn’s snark, everything will probably be fine.

As long as he can continue to avoid Liam that is, and as the avoidance is likely mutual, Louis rates his chances of success in this area as sunny with a hint of triumph.

Or at least, he does until he answers the doorbell at nine o’clock on Saturday morning, exactly one week after Halloween, and Liam is standing on his doorstep.

*-*-*-*


End file.
